There is a PowerBall drawing tonight worth $100 million. I don’t normally pay any attention to the lottery because I know the odds of winning are stupid. You know, like you’re 30,000 times more likely to get hit by lightning than you are to win the lottery, or whatever the statistic is. (Of course, one of my aunts, my sister and my cousin were struck by lightning while they were in the car, driving down the road, and apparently that’s like supposed to be super-extra rare,and it happened to them. So, the improbable does happen.). But I’ve been having a tougher time than normal at work recently, so I have been spending time fantasizing about being independently wealthy.
Any time I think about the lottery, it makes me think of mine and my sister’s babysitter’s husband, Roger. Roger is one of the sweetest, kindest men that I ever met in my life, and as a distant cousin, my mom and my family have always known Roger and his family.
Roger used to talk about winning the lottery. He had a plan. And he always included giving part of his winnings to my mama, to help her pay off our mortgage. When I was growing up, I thought the only reason that my mama had to work was this nebulous thing called a “mortgage”, and if this was gone, she could stay at home with me and Ashleigh, so I LOVED Roger’s plan.
How awesome was it that Roger was going to give us part of his winnings? I don’t know many people who would give me any of their lottery jackpot…
I haven’t seen Roger in a couple of years. The last time that I saw him, he didn’t remember or recognize me because of dementia. I reminded him that I was Libby’s daughter. To which he replied, “You’re Ashleigh’s sister, right? You used to be the pretty one, but now she’s the pretty one.”
I agreed with him. My sister is the pretty one.
And she’s been hit by lightning. Dang, she does have the luck. Maybe I can get her to buy me a PowerBall ticket.